Forgetfulness, I am well aware, can be evidence of forgotten casual encounters with prostitutes. Yet it can’t be denied that wearing a fine old tweed scarf during these encounters satisfies a confessional urge.
Anne and I were remembering an unpleasant event one evening. A few years ago, we were in Côte d'Azur, returning from a picnic, and there was a flash of naked bodies - a strange kinetic beauty. Their simplicity glowed. I was surprised and entranced. Anne let out a dull creaking sort of protest. In our reminiscence, we noted the line between one kind of weather and another, as shattered marble statues were offering their ill-luck.
I am thinking of chocolate in a tiny silver box. Sometimes, near the edge of a landscape, or at the edge of an abyss, I reflect on my fleshy face and long sensitive nose, and hold this little box tightly as the horizon turns from dazzling white to a wet neutral grey.
running the whole length of the horizon...